Five Times Ichabod Doesn't Give Up His Coat
by audreyii-fic
Summary: ...and one time he does. If Crane doesn't get rid of that disgusting jacket soon, Abbie will have no choice but to take matters into her own hands. (General domestic fluff. Post-For the Triumph of Evil.)


** _Five Times Ichabod Doesn't Give Up His Coat _ **  
_(and one time he does)_

* * *

_ **1.** _

"That sleeve's hanging on by about three threads."

"Thank you for your astute observation. I will fix it."

"I don't think it _can_ be fixed."

"Of course it can. I've done more than enough mending on the field of battle, I think I can manage to repair a small rend."

"Look, all I'm saying is, for thirty bucks at Target-"

"_No_." Crane clings mulishly to his wool coat, which - thanks to their latest encounter with something demonic, unpronounceable, and (in this case) in possession of very sharp claws - is more rags than jacket. "Now, if you'll be so kind as to direct me to a needle?"

Abbie throws her hands up in the air, but manages to dig an old travel sewing kit from the bottom of her smaller suitcase. The next morning his coat is back on his shoulders, none the worse for wear.

Maybe it's magic.

* * *

_ **2.** _

Their interview with the latest witness doesn't go well. "I do not understand why she was so determined to be recitent," Crane complains as they get back into the cruiser.

"You were freaking her out."

"I? I was nothing but courteous! How could I have been... er... _freaking her out_, as you say?"

Abbie turns the key, and winces as the engine roars to life. The muffler needs work but the department budget is already shot for the year. "Maybe because you look like you walked out of a war reenactment?" She's got a headache.

Her sarcasm earns her another perplexed look. "War reenactment? Why in heaven's name would anyone wish to _reenact_ war?"

"That's... not the point. The _point_ is that if you keep going around dressed like it's Halloween, everyone you meet is going to think you're insane, or dangerous, or both."

Crane stiffens. "I am not insane," he says coldly.

"_I_ know that." (Probably. They've seen a lot of crazy shit so far, and her world is expanding like a balloon stuck to a helium tank, but that the man she's having a _conversation_ with was _dead_ for two hundred and thirty years... well, he's not _crazy_-crazy, but Abbie's jury is still out on whether he's been brainwashed or something. He talks, he breathes, he's warm when he stands next to her. She knows dead. Corbin is dead. Crane is not. How could he have been dead?) "But you look weird, and it makes people not trust you. Simple as that."

"How ridiculous. If everyone else may walk about in the most nonsensical clothing, I cannot see why _my_ garments are so objectionable. Have you noticed what the young women are wearing? In public, no less?"

"Uh-huh. Next you're going to be yelling at kids to get off your lawn."

"Excuse me?"

The subject gets dropped in favor of an hour long argument on colloquialisms, and Crane's coat stays on.

* * *

_ **3.** _

She never figures out how he gets the bloodstains off his front, but he does, and Abbie reflects - not for the first time - that her grandmother would have _loved_ him.

* * *

_ **4.** _

"I'm not doing it."

"I would be greatly indebted to you."

"You're _already_ greatly indebted to me."

"And I truly have not thanked you enough. But if you could perhaps favor me with one more-"

"No. _You're_ the one who let the thing snatch it off you, so _you_ can go get it back."

"The branches will not hold my weight."

"Not my problem."

"...are you afraid of heights, Lieutenant?"

"Excuse me?"

"Because if you _are_, well, that would be quite a different matter."

"Oh, you had _better_ not be going there."

"I would certainly never encourage a lady to undertake a task she finds frightening."

"I don't find it frightening! I'm just not climbing thirty fucking feet up a fucking oak tree to get back your nasty fucking coat!"

"You state your position quite plainly. Miss Mills, I offer my most heartfelt apology for making such a formidable - nay, _overwhelming_ - request."

"...I really hate you sometimes."

"So I have been made aware. Shall I lift you to the first limb?"

"Yes, you stupid tall undead freak of nature."

"That's the spirit."

* * *

_ **5.** _

They don't make it through the second episode of _Top Gear _(which Crane doesn't understand but loves anyway) and Abbie makes the mistake of trying to pry the coat off while he snores face-down on the couch. The minute she starts to pull at his collar he flips over and lashes out, his fist nearly making cotact with her nose; her feet catch the carpet as she dodges, and she hits the floor with a thud, taking a pile of _National Geographic _with her.

It only takes a half-second for him to realize what he's nearly done. Abbie waves off his babbling apologies as she stretches her arm, wincing where her funny bone caught the edge of the coffee table. "Right, so, slow wakeups," she says ruefully. "Army training?"

"General Washington drilled us endlessly for ambush by enemy soldiers," he admits, "but that is no excuse at all, I should not have-"

"Forget it. No harm, no foul." She doesn't bring it up, because he feels bad enough already, but Abbie's had four years of police training and Crane's not exactly The Hulk. She's pretty sure she could take a few hits from those skinny arms and stay standing. "I was just going to, uh..."

"Were you... _undressing_ me?"

"I only wanted the coat!" she says hastily.

Ichabod narrows his eyes and clutches the offending jacket closer to his frame. His toes are sticking out from under the afghan; at least he takes his socks off. "What, Lieutenant, is your what I can only describe as _obsession_ with my coat?"

"_My_ obsession?" It rained this evening - still raining, actually, she can hear it tapping against the windowpane like fingernails - and everything stinks of wet wool. "_You're_ the one who sleeps in the damn thing."

"I _fell asleep_ in it, which is quite a different matter. I sleep in my-"

"Yeah, I don't need to know. Is this about the money? I told you, I don't mind paying for-"

"I would not purchase a new wardrobe even if I _did_ have currency at my disposal." His fierce scowl really loses impact when his hair is sticking up like that. "If its current condition offends you, I shall wash and repair it once more come morning."

"It's gonna go to pieces any minute, Crane."

"Nonsense. If Katrina could mend it as many times as she did, I certainly can as well."

She's halfway into her next argument, but she snaps her mouth shut at that. And Crane quickly looks away.

Oh.

Abbie feels about two inches tall. That's not something she's used to (not anymore) and she stands quickly, brushing imaginary specks of lint from her jeans. "Right. Uh - yeah, okay. Whatever. Just, you know, get that smell out tomorrow, all right?"

And she beats a hasty retreat to her bedroom.

* * *

_ **1.** _

Abbie hates camping. She hates the damp. She hates the chill. She hates the feel of the pine log under her butt. She hates the forest and its black silhouettes against the night sky and she hates the wisps of mist that float between tree trunks and disappear when you blink. She hates it all.

Crane, though, is perfectly at home as he pokes at their little campfire. The coals glow and crackle in the darkness. "The runes clearly stated that this is where the poltergeist would appear," he says. "It should not take much longer."

"Great."

"You've the blessed oil at the ready, correct?"

"Yup."

"And the rosary?"

"I said I've got it, Crane."

He stops what he's doing. She can see his uncertain expression out of the corner of her eye. "Lieutenant? Are you well? If the woods are reminding you of-"

"I'm fine," she says shortly. The flames are leaving flickering spots in her vision. Why does he always have to _talk?_ "I just want to finish this crap up and go home."

A minute passes in silence.

Then a warm weight drapes itself over Abbie's shoulders, settling heavily onto her body like an old, worn quilt. The high collar scratches against her cheek; the sleeves are so long they brush the moss covering the ground. And yeah, there's kind of a weird scent, but it's not so bad. Smoky. Like the fire.

"You're gonna get cold," Abbie says, fidgeting with the pewter buttons. It's just a coat, but it feels like armor.

Ichabod shrugs as he settles back onto his own log. "I've survived far worse nights in the out-of-doors. Besides, this autumn is proving to be unusually temperate."

"Well, that's global warming for you."

He blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

Abbie grins as she pulls the coat tighter. "Oh, yeah. Bad news about that: while you were busy taking a dirt nap, the human race totally screwed up the planet. The polar ice caps are melting and everything."

_"What?"_

She explains, and Crane goes on such a loud, indignant rants about the evils of short-sighted modern society that they nearly miss the poltergeist when it finally arrives. Abbie never bothers him about his coat again.


End file.
